Key.
It was cloudless, the Eldo's top was down, the steering wheel was warmed by the sun. Once a fiery red, the Caddy was now a faded dingy orange, but its fuel-injected engine still managed a throaty roar. On the reggae station, Bob Marley was confessing that he'd shot the sheriff, though apparently not the deputy.
The drive gave Steve an uncomfortable ninety minutes to think about his upcoming sparring match. He wasn't in the mood to hear about his own failings for the zillionth time. Long ago, he figured that his father's parenting was divided between the schools of benign neglect and don't-be-such. As in, Don't be such a wimp; Don't be such a whiner; and the classic ego-booster for an adolescent boy: Don't be such a loser.
Traffic slowed near Key Largo as he passed a collection of trailer parks, bait shops, souvenir stands, and ticky-tack apartment buildings on stilts. South of Plantation Key, the land fell away in spectacular fashion, leaving nothing but the two-lane roadway, slender beaches, and a series of bridges. Zipping past utility poles topped by osprey nests, Steve inhaled the rich, earthy smells of low tide along with the exhaust from a Hummer hauling a power boat. To the left was the turquoise water of the Florida Straits, to the right, the placid Gulf of Mexico, patches of red coral visible just beneath the surface.
Along the bridges, fathers and sons fished from catwalks and brown pelicans dive-bombed the shallows. Rec vehicles were parked in the white sand, kids piling out, splashing through the shallow water, their dogs yapping after them.
Regular families.
Unlike his, Steve thought. His mother deceased, his father in exile, his sister a habitual criminal. And what about him?
Just who the hell was Steve Solomon, anyway?
Pulling into the beachfront parking lot of crushed shells, the Eldo stirred up puffs of limestone dust. Steve spotted his father's old Chrysler Imperial, a kayak tied to a roof rack, rust spots on the hood and trunk where salt water had dripped. In his forced retirement, Herbert had taken to paddling across Florida Bay, exploring the Everglades, and camping on uninhabited islands.
The Tortugas Tavern was not much more than an open tiki hut with a thatched roof and a four-sided bar with mounted stools. The temperature hovered around eighty, and the air smelled of salt mixed with tangy smoke from the open kitchen. As he approached, Steve caught sight of his father, perched on a bar stool, a martini glass in front of him. Tanned the color of a richly brewed tea, Herbert wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt from a Key West oyster stand with the logo “Eat 'Em Raw.” His long, shimmering white hair was combed straight back and curled up at the neck.
The image was jarringly at odds with what Steve remembered of his father, the neatly groomed downtown lawyer, and later the respected judge. Some of Steve's earliest memories were of his father's crinkly seersucker suits, a countrified Southern tradition. When Miami became more sophisticated, so did Herbert. As senior partner of his own law firm, he switched to Saville Row suits and advised younger lawyers to “think Yiddish, dress British.”
Moving closer, Steve heard his father's voice, carried on the easterly breeze. He seemed to be entertaining a fortyish female bartender.
“So ah'm presiding over this sexual harassment case, and this pretty little lady testifies that her boss browbeat her into putting out for him.” Herbert's voice was so musical you could dance to it. “Her lawyer asks her to tell the jury exactly what her boss said, but she cain't 'cause she's just too proper. Ah say, ‘Write it down, missy, and ah'll show it to the jury.' So she writes on a slip of paper-‘Ah want to fuck you so bad'-and ah give it to the jury. Jurors One and Two read it and pass it on, but Juror Three is sound asleep.”
“I think I see this coming,” the lady bartender said.
“Hang on, Ginger. Did ah mention that Juror Two is a cute gal and Juror Three is a middle-aged guy? Anyway, the gal elbows the guy, wakes him up, and hands him the note. He reads it, grins like he's won the lottery, winks at her, and tucks the note into his pocket.”
The bartender laughed. “I knew it!”
“Never happened,” Steve said, slipping onto the adjacent bar stool. A sailboard, dented with shark bites, was mounted on the back wall, and a paddle fan made lazy circles over their heads.
“Hey, son. It's the emmis. Every word.”
“A courthouse myth.”
“Dammit, ah was there.” He turned to the bartender. “Ginger, this is mah boy. Stephen, the smart-ass.”
Ginger had a pile of blond hair and wore white shorts with a floral top that was nothing more than a scarf tied behind her back. Her shoulders were slumped and her suntanned midriff was starting to sag. She had the tired look of a woman who'd spent too much time with too many wrong men and took too long to do something about it. “Getcha something, smart-ass?”
“Beer. Whatever's on tap.”
“Something to eat?”
“You have conch chowder?”
“Do gators shit in the swamp?”
“Bowl. A little sherry in it. Basket of crab fritters.”
“You got it.”
She left and the two men appraised each other. Herbert's still-handsome face was lined and flecked with age spots, but his eyes were clear, dark, and bright, the same eyes as his son. His deep tan made his smile seem almost too bright.
“How's Bobby?” Herbert said.
“Making progress. Fewer nightmares, fewer fits.”
“You give him a hug for me, tell him his Pop loves him.”
“Sure thing.” It was easier for his old man to send I-love-you messages by courier than deliver them personally, Steve figured. “He's at the Seaquarium today with Teresa and Marvin. They're crazy about him.”
“Nice people. Used to pass me notes on the bench, tell me who was lying.”
Steve already had taken Bobby to the Seaquarium five times in the last month. It would have been thirty times if the boy had his way. Whatever grabbed Bobby's attention quickly became an obsession, and currently he was fascinated with trained seals. Steve could picture him now, expertly mimicking the seals' mating calls, luring them off their platforms, wreaking havoc with the show.
“So what's up, Dad? What's the emergency?”
“In due time, son.” Herbert sipped at his martini, straight up. “You seeing anyone special?”
“You mean a woman?”
“No, a Saint Bernard. Of course a woman.”
“I don't have the time.”
“That it? Or you don't have anything to offer?”
Aw, jeez. Not this again, Steve thought. Ginger delivered his beer and a steaming bowl of chowder. “C'mon, Dad. Just tell me why you hauled me down here.”
“Women want a man of substance,” Herbert declared, not easing up.
“You mean money.”
“Status. Prestige. Money, too.”
“False gods, every one,” Steve said.
“What happened to that TV anchorwoman? Diane something-or-other.”
Steve took a long hit on his beer. “She dumped me for a partner at Morgan Lewis.”
Herbert nodded knowingly. “So now I can ask. Her boobs real?”
“As real as her smile.” Steve remembered the first time Diane came to his house. She took one look around and suggested he sell all his furnishings on eBay.
“And that card shark,” Herbert said. “What happened to her?”
“Sally Panther wasn't a card shark. She dealt Texas Hold 'Em at the Miccosukee casino.” Steve spooned the spicy chowder, thick with conch meat. “She found a high roller, moved to Palm Beach.”
“Uh-huh. See a pattern here?”
“Yeah. The women I meet are shallow.”
